Over the dust of a ghostly trail
by Wynefred
Summary: Pre-series. Dean is injured while on a hunt at a renovated Montana dude ranch. Characters: teen!Dean, teen!Sam, John.


A/N 1: This is a response to mayhsgirl93's prompt on the hoodie_time a Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#4) on LiveJournal. My first teen!fic.

Prompt: "_Dean with a broken ankle must wait for John and Sam to come save him. Any age, though I love teen!Dean."_

A/N 2: Title taken from a cowboy song called Tall Men Riding at: www (dot) lonehand (dot) com (slash) cowboy_songs (dot) htm

A/N 3: Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine. Of course, feel free to tell me about any errors you find.

* * *

The job was supposed to be easy. A good one to get Sammy's feet wet, Dad had said. As a favor for a friend, they were checking out a haunting at some Montana horse ranch. Simple salt'n'burn. Straight-forward angry spirit haunting.

Dad had even let his anxious 11-year-old son do all the research for the case. After a long drive and a few quick errands, the three Winchesters settled into their motel room. Sammy pored over the material he'd found during his quick trip to the tiny local library while Dean cleaned and organized their supplies. Under the guise of supervising the troops, their dad kicked back in the motel room's one lumpy armchair, propped his feet up on the windowsill, and monitored his boys through hooded lids. Soon his soft snores echoed through the room.

Turned out, Sammy was able to find most of the information he needed in the ranch's advertisement brochure. Formerly an old working horse ranch, it had been converted into a private resort. The brochure invited customers to partake of horseback rides in the great outdoors, fly fishing, tennis, nature hikes, and other resort-type activities. Though smaller than its competitors at only 250 acres, the J. Johnson Historic Ranch (J-J) had something to offer its patrons that other ranches couldn't. As advertised in the brochures, the J-J boasted of having its own bona fide ghost: the original property owner, Mr. James Percy Johnson himself.

According to the brochure, the ranch's original owner had been a crotchety old loner who'd detested trespassers. The brochure sported a sketch of a stereotypical old cowboy holding a shotgun on a couple of well-dressed, innocent-looking visitors. The local story read that one day a couple of pranksters caused trouble on his ranch. In a fit of rage the old rancher went after them, fell off his horse, and broke his own neck. The young pranksters had buried the old man at the northwest corner of the property. His body was later found, relocated, and laid to rest closer to the homestead under a beautiful patch of trees with a gorgeous view of distant mountains . The brochure even provided a map to the gravesite. The ranch lured visitors with the assertion that the old man's ghost walked the halls of the buildings, warning trespassers away. Patrons might find that their belongings had been moved or might witness items falling off of shelves or tables. If they were lucky, they might even get a glimpse of the ghostly specter.

Of course, it had all sounded like hype until the increasing number of unexplained accidents forced the ranch to shut down. It seemed that after years of rumors, the old man's ghost really was making an appearance. During that quick trip to the local library, little Sammy even managed to find out that the old man's original home, which had been kept intact for historical and commercial purposes, had been dubbed an eyesore by the latest owners. Ranch management ordered the home demolished to make room for a new racquetball court. The accidents began a few weeks later. More than a dozen serious accidents and one fatality over the span of six months finally forced management to temporarily close the resort.

Through his friend's connections, their dad obtained open admission to the property, no questions asked. They went in armed with the necessary gear and a simple game-plan: follow the map from the brochure, cross-referenced with the more detailed map Sammy had obtained during his library excursion; locate the old man's grave site; dig up the bones; salt and burn the remains; high-tail it outta there. Easy.

Finding the grave really couldn't have been easier. A well-marked trail complete with arrowed signposts led to the gravesite. The gravesite had been decorated with a large shiny headstone, landscaping, and a waist-high border wall warning visitors from crossing the barrier. All the Winchesters had to do now was dig down to the remains and put the old man to his final rest. Easy.

Until the old man's ghost showed up. The old codger took immediate offense at three guys digging up his bones. Starting his assault by throwing rocks, sticks, and other items at the trio, the late Mr. Johnson soon upgraded to flinging bigger things... first Sammy, followed by their dad. Despite being tossed several feet through the air, his dad managed to swing his shotgun up in a fluid motion, dispersing the spirit in a shower of iron buckshot. With his dad's "Dean, buy us some time" ringing in his ears, Dean grabbed his favorite sawed-off and took off across the field. Shouting insults at the ancient rancher as he ran, Dean hoped to lure the rancher away from the gravesite.

Worked like a charm, too. Dean pelted across the rolling countryside, the spirit not far behind and getting closer with every step. Old Jim Bob sure was fast for a dead guy. Barely slowing his reckless pace, Dean turned, aimed as well as he could, and pulled the trigger. The spirit disappeared in a puff of smoke and Dean grinned to himself over his mad hunting skills. Dean quickened his pace as he sped away from the small wooded area where his dad and Sammy toiled to uncover the spirit's remains.

The rancher reappeared behind him again within seconds, screaming his rage. Dean turned again to shoot, but just as he took aim his left foot twisted out from under him. He tried to roll into the fall and jump back to his feet, but the fire shooting up his leg had him falling back to the ground with a pained grunt. At that moment, a shadowy figure appeared in front of him. Realizing too late that he'd dropped his gun when he fell, Dean found himself gripped in a headlock and dragged at a dizzying pace across the bumpy ground.

As he dragged his struggling captive, the old rancher grumbled on about people traipsing all over his land. In a rush of movement, Dean felt his head plunged into icy water, the shock making him gasp in a lungful of the freezing liquid. Dean suspected he'd been dragged over 20 acres to the nearest pond on the property. He fought to bring his head out of the water, his burning lungs screaming for air, but the spectral hand holding him down felt solid and unrelenting. Just as darkness closed in around mind, he felt the iron grip on his head disappear.

* * *

Dean pulled himself from the edge of the pond, coughing and sputtering putrid water from his lungs. His frantic gaze found no sign of his ghostly attacker. Satisfied, Dean lay back on the ground and concentrated on reacquainting his lungs with the function of breathing air. Feeling somewhat recovered, he sat up and tested his ankle with tentative fingers, wincing at a particularly tender spot. Dean dreaded even the idea of walking, but he knew he had little choice. His dad would expect him to meet either at the dig site or on the way back to the impala.

He attempted to stand, balancing most of his weight on his good ankle. When he shifted some of his weight to his rapidly-swelling ankle, fire again shot up his leg. He shifted back to his good leg with a whimper. Scanning the ground for anything he could use as a crutch revealed nothing helpful. He tried taking a few hopping steps, but the pain in his ankle ratcheted up another notch with each halting step. No way could he make it several feet on his own, much less several acres to meet his family. Dean eased himself back to the ground and settled himself to wait for his family to find him.

He hated waiting. Especially waiting with nothing to do. The job was supposed to have been easy. Yeah, easy. He snorted to himself as he wrapped goosebumped arms around his shivering chest, his wet shirts providing meager protection against the cool November breeze. He'd left his jacket in the car, expecting to be active enough digging a grave that a little nip in the air wouldn't bother him. He'd never anticipated being dunked in a freezing pond by a psychotic spirit. Cold and miserable, he stretched his vision across the rolling terrain, willing his family to appear over the next slope.

By the time he spotted his dad and Sammy lumbering down the distant field, Dean's swelling ankle throbbing in agonizing tempo with his heartbeat. Shouting to his dad, he managed to stand, balancing most of his weight on one leg. His dad, who'd been scanning the distance with his shotgun at attention, lowered his weapon and seemed to sag with relief. Sammy ran ahead when he spotted his brother, his duffle bagging against his legs as he jogged the remaining distance. He skidded to a stop in front of Dean, chattering excitedly about how they'd found Dean's gun and how worried he'd been and how much he wanted to go horseback riding now that the job was over. Dean snaked a hand over Sammy's shoulder, using his brother as a crutch while watching his dad's advance.

Dean could feel his father's scrutinizing eyes taking in his wet hair and clothes as well as his awkward stance. When the man reached his sons, his eyes betrayed conflicting emotions, which Dean would have seen if he'd been able to meet his dad's gaze. Instead of the rebuke Dean had expected, his dad gruffly asked how bad it was, nodding toward the leg... the truth, he asserted. Shocked by his dad's tone, he raised his eyes to his dad's, evaluating whether to give his normal stoic response or an accurate assessment. With a sigh, he admitted that it was bad, ankle sprained, possibly broken. Dean didn't hesitate in answering the next question, insisting he could walk with Sammy's help and no sir, he didn't need to be carried.

With a curt nod, his dad made sure Sammy could handle Dean's weight, relieved his younger son of the duffel, and took point. During the trek back, his dad switched places with Sam, supporting Dean's weight himself. Panting and sweating from exertion, Dean almost considered biting his pride and asking to be carried. Almost. He struggled to control the nausea quaking in his stomach and the moans threatening to escape his lips. He nearly cried with relief when the shiny black hood came into view. Dad opened the back passenger side door and sat him down facing out. With a gentleness that contradicted his normally coarse nature, he took Dean's ankle in his hands and probed gently, noting his son's pained responses. Instructing Sammy to slide into the back from the driver's side, he then carefully eased Dean around and helped prop the ankle on Sammy's lap.

His dad disappeared around the back of the car for a bit, Dean assumed to stow the gear. He realized he'd closed his eyes against the agonizing throb in his leg when he felt his dad's hands again. Leaning into Sammy's open door, his dad eased Dean's leg up far enough to slide a couple of emergency blankets under it, propping the leg up further. Sammy then draped one protective arm over Dean's propped leg for added stability. Their dad closed Sammy's door and slipped into the driver's seat. With a worried look in the rearview mirror, he started the car and headed off. Dean's barely-suppressed whimpers and groans and Sam's comforting noises the only sounds in the car.

* * *

After several grueling hours at the local clinic, Dean found himself back in the hotel room stretched out on his bed, his splinted ankle propped up on several pillows. Sammy and Dad hovered somewhere nearby. A pair of crutches stood against the corner wall. The x-rays had confirmed the break. Dean was under doctor's orders not to put any weight on his foot for at least six weeks, taking him out of commission until after Christmas. Not to mention that he'd be hobbling around the latest school-of-the week on stupid crutches.

His dad hadn't asked any questions about how he'd managed to screw up his ankle, hadn't complained about how long he'd be out of the hunt. Dean knew it was only a matter of time, could see it simmering under his dad's unnervingly gentle demeanor. But he'd worry about that later. For now, Dean dozed in the happy haze that only comes from good pain meds, his family watching over him as he slept.


End file.
